Mackenzie Pearce had to take action. She had no intention of finishing college, nor was she looking to start a family before the U.S. military literally started banging down her front door like she couldn’t gas her own grill the alt-right way.
The occupied lawn in front of the stage remained trash and cigarette bud-free. This intrigued Mackenzie almost as much as the fact that she had never met her biological sister. Her last paternal guardian, Sergeant Neil K. Elder of the U.S. Army, hadn’t contracted “the gay Cancer” during his final stationing in Thailand back in ’85. However, a young Iraqi boy had managed to alert a local terror cell of an advancing U.S. medical aid group twenty years later. He did so by releasing oil-free pigeons at well-timed intervals, which had quickly emancipated Mackenzie from her prior misconceptions about the most puzzling urban spaces on Planet Earth.
College wasn’t the real world, at least not until she slit every open shoulder dress she owned in two before exposing the Republican presidential candidate she was about to share unduckable shade with for who hereally was, and that was the antithesis of progress in her fully formed mind.
Mackenzie pretended to not appreciate the auspicious tact of the male students seated around her. Their daddy-bought business suits and slick-back “Pompadour on President-elect Trump parole” hair wouldn’t stop America’s next race war, and neither would she, the bastard daughter of breakout year benevolence. An untraceable CNN newsfeed that could only lead to purposeful violence as her peer-reviewed nails remained bolder than the illegible markers on the bottom of the nearest dry erase board.
Once Antifa claimed full responsibility for her gender-bending protests of the self-professed miracle worker with no balls, no online presence, and no Paralympics background whatsoever, she’d declare war on free speech without managing to cut her own hands off in the process.
Marty Silverman was born in College Point, New Jersey. He had attended a small Christian college twenty-six minutes away from the epicenter of fake boobs outside of West Hollywood, but whenever his head of security told him that his life was in danger he couldn’t help but recreate his mortal demise inside his own head.
Marty was far too attractive to dedicate more than half of his impending thirties to American politics. He wanted to act, to somehow come to grips with the human psyche after constantly being told just how wrong he was about every facet of his daily life. This didn’t occur for the sake of social clarity but for the benefit of someone more mentally stifled than game show Drew Carey, and frankly enough was enough.
Marty had the undisclosed backing of Congressional aids, state delegates, and tenured professors all across the country, but he was no presidential nominee. The man he was about to introduce certainly was, but he was also more out of touch with the consumer needs of the American public than a working girl from Manchester. Especially one resembling Gene Simmons from a moving double-decker Wrightbus.
Marty knew all his detractors simply needed was a break from reality every once and awhile, but after what turned out to be a well-timed speech program and civil enough Q and A wrap-up session, he was met by a human wall with candy lips for dissolving mortar.
“Thanks for coming! It’s so nice to meet you finally.”
The well-groomed undergrad in front of him didn’t bother shaking his hand before trapping his right arm in place with her own and snapping a quick selfie.
She had participated in the Q&A, introducing herself as Marty? No, that’s your name, silly.
The other Marty tapped her phone to expand the new jpeg, before letting him have a looksie.
“Look how handsome you are!”
Before disappearing completely through the approaching throng, she told him, “You’re a life-saver. God bless!”
Only after Marty relocated to the reserved lot a single beer can toss away from the nearest duck pond did the other Marty slip him a DM. Like an American flag-straightening poker hand gone Russian redhead ravenous, he decided on career suicide while his journalist friends were busy booking a hotel thirty miles away just to avoid the rival collegiate press.
Marty met the other Marty at a small all-night eatery on-campus at exactly 4:04am. He didn’t apologize for being late or for promising the snipers still perched on top of the cadet quad donuts before 6; he simply waited for the other Marty to tell him what this was all about.
She looked extremely nervous. Both her hands remained steady around her steaming mocha medley 12 oz., but she had stated in the DM that both their lives were about to change forever. Instead of immediately calling campus police for directions to the least traveled road towards a red southern state, Marty assumed the most benign sitting stance he possibly could without passing accidental gas.
Her name was Mackenzie. Mackenzie had been his biological sister in another life, a life where historical records in the public sector were so poorly documented by the U.S. government that she had no recourse but to infiltrate an anti-hate group in order to find out the following: her older sister was not only not a girl but was one of the most successful political commentators of her generation. Since his rise to NPR prominence, Marty’s early background had remained as unsubstantiated as the supposed hate-speech he had used on the online messenger platforms of the early 2000s, but the past was the past. That was until Mackenzie noted a familiar photograph taken of Marty on a cattle ranch in Texas at age four. Not only did he and the little girl beside him share the same handsome bowl cut and Slavic features; Mackenzie owned the exact same photograph. She always had.
Through tearstained eyes, she asked Marty, “You’ve seen this picture before, haven’t you?”
After swatting away her missing bangs from the debut year of George Michael’s “I Want Your Sex”, Mackenzie exploded into Marty’s arms. Marty responded in kind, but given the chance what would Mackenzie have done to that young Iraqi boy after he took away the only father she ever had known? Who were they destined to be if not brother and sister before their next impromptu dash to the nearest little pirates and princess’s room? A tolerant place where they could finally wash the blood of a combustible world off from their white-feathered hands.
Marty chuckled, before he asked, “So, what’s your major?”
Mackenzie grinned real big, before answering, “Currently undecided.”
Even still, her older brother was just as much of a softie where it mattered—for a conservative. After all, he loved war and hated America. Or was it the other way around? Marty could never think straight around emotional women. He could, however, certainly act like he hadn’t spent that extra four minutes checking out his new baby sister’s online pics. Even if she had been sporting less KISS makeup than the anti-fascists waiting for him back outside.